


The Lonely

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Twilight Zone
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Firsts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 16:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Witness if you will a distant planet with a dungeon made of desert sand and mountain stone. This planet holds one inmate, a man wrongly accused, serving a life sentence. His only solace, his notebook and the thought of the day when the supply ship brings him a pardon. Instead, salvation comes to John Watson in a large box and a visitor from The Twilight Zone.This is a gift to itsneverjustheartdisease for all her past support and friendship. She suggested this story—one of her favorites. Based on a story from The Twilight Zone with the same title, she told me not to flinch at the ending, assuring me that sometimes she needs a really good cry.Beta by the most wonderful and thorough recently_folded. Thank you.You've been warned. Major character death.





	The Lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itsneverjustheartdisease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsneverjustheartdisease/gifts).



In two rooms cobbled together from driftwood, corrugated steel, and pieces of space refuse, he survives. His only friend, a small greenhouse. Tomatoes, peppers, and lettuce are the only color in his day. This is his desert dungeon. A prison with a mountainous plateau for a wall and endless sand dunes for bars. Here John Watson serves his sentence. Spending the rest of his natural life in solitary confinement, he’s locked away on a small planet far from Earth.

It’s hot, but he’s a friend to it. It’s a poor man’s Earth: half the size with days half as long. 

What little energy that can be eked out of this meager environment comes from two small wind turbines and a small bank of solar panels pieced together. Water pools inside his home-made solar still. Twice per year, for a few scant hours, his jailors come to drop off basic provisions.

And he’s due for a visit. Until then, John Watson does what he does every morning. He waits. He trudges out of his shack in his worn jeans and threadbare shirt, stands on top of the first dune, and shields his eyes with his hand as he watches the alien sun rise. 

The sky is pale and as bland as the sand. It’s a contrast to John Watson. He has a strong face, strong hands. He used to be a surgeon and a soldier. He used to have a life and a home. Then he did the unthinkable. He killed a man to save a friend.

Watson scans the horizon one more time, turns and kicks up sand as he goes back to his shack. As the only pieces of real furniture, the well-worn square table and chair comprise the room’s centerpiece. At the room's lonely outskirts, packing crates serve as the remaining furniture: a reading chair, end table, and bookcase. Sand is everywhere. He hates sand. There's no point to sweeping it out—it creeps back inside like a common thief. The bed is unmade, an old tattered quilt wadded at the foot of the yellowed mattress. The sand finds its way into that too. He takes out a battered old notebook and sits down to write at the table. He doesn’t have much to write about, but he writes. It’s habit. Not every day, or even every week. But enough to keep him sane.

He doesn’t count minutes or hours, only the sun rising and setting. He turns the pages until he comes to a blank one and writes. 

 

 

 

 

> Day 946. The supply ship is overdue. I think. Maybe not. Hard to keep track of these things although I should since it’s all I’ve got to do besides tend the plants in the greenhouse. I hope it's Stamford’s ship. He's a decent man, and he always brings something for me. He does his best. He brought me the glass for the greenhouse and seeds. He brought me the books and notebooks. Thank God for all he’s brought because without it I would have gone crazy. Sometimes I think, well, I wonder whether this all isn’t real. It would be nice if it weren't. But it is. I’m out here in this silence with only the sound of my voice and the wind for company. I think at times I can’t stand the alone. The misery of it all.

 

He drops his pencil and buries his face his arms. He falls asleep that way, but wakes with the distant roaring. A flash of light breaks through his window, and Watson stands, then dashes to the door, flinging it open. He watches the ship land behind the dunes in the distance. 

Less than a hour later, two men dressed in familiar grey uniforms slog toward his shack. Watson races out to greet them, but halfway there, he hesitates, clenching his fists. One of them is Stamford; the other, he's not sure. He continues, more slowly. He stops a few feet from the men.

Stamford nods. “How are you, John?”

“Fine, Mike.” They stand, staring at each other. The other man, John is certain now, he has never met. He stands next to Stamford looks around himself, scowling.

“This is Anderson. It's his first run.”

“Anderson,” Watson nods.

“Nice place you got here,” Anderson says.

“Mmm. Glad you like it.” 

“I didn’t mean it,” he says. He stands stiff, arms at his sides, scanning around him. “It’s a pit.” 

“Well, you don’t have to live here.” John frowns at him. He hasn't made eye contact with John once.

 “No but I’ve got to visit here from now on, twice a year," he says, eyes finally resting on Watson. "That’s a chunk of months out of my life. My wife and kids won’t know me when I return.” 

“I’m sorry,” Watson says, wondering why he's to blame.

Anderson gives him a nasty look. “I bet you are! Look what you have here. A palace!” Anderson reaches down and grabs a handful of sand and lets it sift through his fingers. “Miles and miles, as far as your eye can see. All just like this.” 

Watson bites his lip. He wonders how much Anderson would like it if he were forced to change places with John. He wants to punch him. He clenches his hands and takes a deep breath. 

“We’ve only got about an hour today, John,” Mike says. 

Watson's heart sinks. The ship usually stays the day before leaving. He doesn't want Stamford to see he’s distraught by this, but he can't stop the disappointment he feels. 

“Tight schedule,” Stamford says. “It’s the orbit that’s the problem. This piece of rock they call a planet you're on is close to an asteroid belt. If we wait much longer, we’d be taking too much of a risk. If we don't go now, we’d be stuck here for at least fourteen of your days. Sorry to cut it short.”

His head pops up. “Fourteen days would be fine!” Watson says, excitedly. “I have plenty of supplies with my new greenhouse. We could play the Cluedo game you gave me. And Chess. I have those and the cards. Poker. Yeah, we could play poker.” 

“I wish we could, but we have to leave within an hour. No more.” 

“What’s a few days?” Watson says, his voice rising. He hates it, but he can't stop. “Play a few hands. Tell me about what’s been happening on Earth.” 

Stamford shakes his head sadly and Anderson frowns. 

“Any time here is too long if you ask me,” Anderson says. 

“No one is asking you. What are you afraid of? You just said it was a 'palace'.” 

“We’re wasting time,” Anderson says. 

“I’m sorry, John. Really sorry,” Mike says.

“At least tell me there’s been some word about my pardon,” Watson says, resigned.

Anderson squints up at the sky. “Word? I’ll give you a word. L-U-C-K, and you’re out of it. Your sentence is sixty years. And no more reviews for homicides. You’ve been here, what? Almost two? That means you’ve got fifty-eight more to go.” Then he laughs.

If he hadn't wanted to punch him before, Watson really wants to now. His face and neck grow hot. 

“Come on, John,” Mike says. “Let’s get out of the sun.” 

They make their way towards the shack, and Watson sees Mike looking over at him, then looking away. They stop near the wind turbines. John sighs and wipes his hands over his face.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mike says. “I don’t make the rules. All I can do is bring you supplies and a few things to make your life more tolerable. At home there are a lot of people who think stranding criminals on planets is unnecessarily cruel. And in your case, you’re no threat to anyone other than the man you killed. Be patient. Who knows what will happen in the future.” 

“You know what, Mike. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. Each day I wake up to the same bland morning. My mouth is filled with grit, and I've got sand in the crack of my arse.” With each word, Watson cringes at the agony of sharing this. Anderson bites back a laugh. “I taste copper. This place tastes of blood. I fought in a war; I healed people. I still could be good for something. I can’t live fifty-eight years like this! I’ll go insane.”

When Stamford reaches out to give him a bit of comfort, Watson growls back at him. Two other men have come from the ship and are walking closer.

“Boo, hoo. I’m cryin’ a river for Mr. Misery here,” Anderson says.

He swings at Anderson. The first blow lands with perfect precision on his chin; the second, Anderson's cheek. The third to the jaw knocks him to the ground. Watson wants to kick him, jump on top of him and beat his face to a pulp, but he takes one step back instead. He breathes deeply as he watches Stamford and the two men help a senseless Anderson up onto his feet. 

“Crazy? Going crazy?" Watson snarls. "I’m already over halfway there, and if you fuck with me again, I’ll make sure that you’ll need my medical services afterward.” The two men step between them, separating him from Anderson.

“John, stop! We don’t have time for this. We need to get your supplies unloaded.” He turns to the two men. “Unload them for him. One’s a big blue crate with a yellow handle—take special care with that one. Go with them, Anderson.” 

“Gladly.” Anderson follows the two as they turn and start back across the sand to the ship while Stamford puts a hand on Watson’s back to lead him into his shack.

Inside, Stamford walks over to Watson's bed and sits down on it as he watches Watson take a jug of cold water from his refrigeration unit. 

“Can’t offer you a proper drink. This will have to do.” 

Watson reaches for a glass on his counter. It’s turned upside down to keep the sand out. He still blows in it to make sure before he pours the water for Stamford. 

“Thanks,” he says as he takes it. “Got you a few canisters of ale. Thought you might like that Found some more books you might like too, along with some notebooks. I still don’t know why you don’t want some type of laptop to write on instead of pad and paper.” 

“What if it dies on me? Then I’d be out of a way to write. It’s one of the few things that keep my head together.” 

“That old record player I brought you still working?”

“Sure is. I was listening to Cab Calloway just last night.” 

“Good, brought you a few more vintage records. Tell you what, if I bring you a laptop next time, you can watch movies on it. Let me do it. I could get you some good old ones next time around. ” _Skyfall, Inception, The Creature from the Black Lagoon_.”

Watson bites his lip but nods. They sit quietly for a long moment, Stamford stands up and walks over to the window.

“I brought you something else. I took a big chance with it. Could cost me my job if anyone else found out.” 

“Look. I know you’re trying to help me. I appreciate your gifts, but what I really need is out of here. This is worse than any prison. I need that pardon. I need out."

"Well, hitting Anderson isn't going to help your case any." 

"I know that, and I'm sorry, but the wanker stretched me thin, right to the breaking point.” 

“I know. I'd like to punch him myself sometimes, but you can't do that. You need to watch yourself. You've got friends out there. Good friends. One real good friend in particular." 

John nods. 

"You know who I'm talking about. That friend you saved. I've met him. I’ve talked to him a lot actually. In fact he's the one who talked me into bringing this gift to you. He insisted. Look. It’s not easy doing what I have to do. But I like to think that I do it with a modicum of kindness. He made a good argument for bringing it to you. So. There you have it.” 

Watson rubs his hands over his face. “I’m not sure what I have. You never know with him.” 

“He's a good enough man. Look John. I’m sorry, but I can’t bring you freedom. All I can do is bring you things.”

Watson chokes out a laugh.

Moments later, Anderson rolls in a cart with smaller containers of dried and powdered foodstuff, medical supplies, and other odds and ends. The other two men stand outside the door with the large crate. The door is too narrow to carry it through, so they set it down in the sand in front of the door like an offering, the red tag at the end of the crate flapping in the wind. 

“You want it opened, Stamford?” Anderson asks, touching the bruise on his face.

“No. Not yet. I’ll leave that for John. We haven’t much time left. Go on back to the ship. We need to take off soon,” Stamford says. 

Standing in the doorway, John stares at the huge rectangular crate. His mind thinks of all the crazy things his friend might send him. It looks like a fucking coffin. His coffin. The only way he's ever going to leave this place. But no. His friend wants him to live. What could it be? John comes up short. He’d expected something from him, received messages that Mike had passed along, news of the potential pardon. Was this some sort of consolation prize? Some gesture of compassion from his friend? 

“When you open the crate, there’s nothing you need to do. The...item...has been sealed within and is activated upon opening it. Just lay your hands on the panel on the front, then undo the catches on the side. Other than that, no need for instructions. It will answer your questions. Like I said, we can’t open it now. I’d appreciate you waiting until after we’ve taken off. It’s my job if anyone else finds out.” 

This sounds exactly like his friend—so mysterious. He’s still contemplating it when Stamford speaks again, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

“We’ve got to go now, John. Take care.”

“Sure. I’ll see you in what? Six months?” John says. 

“Sure.” Stamford smiles, and waves to his men. 

“Thank you. For whatever this is. Just, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, John.” He hurries away. John stands and in the doorway and watches him disappear over the horizon line of the dunes. He waits patiently. Listens for that roar. He hears it, then sees the shining spacecraft hover, slowly up and up. He wishes he was on it. But he’s not. 

He stands there until it's a speck in the sky. 

He has this gift instead. A gift from…

As instructed, he kneels down next to the crate and presses his palms flat on the front panel. He hears three quick beeps. He reaches for the clasps on the side of the crate and unsnaps them. The crate gasps and groans as the lid pops ajar. A few inches, but it’s enough for Watson to get his fingers inside. He pulls it the rest of the way open.

“Sherlock Bloody Holmes! What have you done!” John's eyes go wide; his mouth drops open. Inside the box is his friend. The one he killed for. How is this possible? 

Then, as if a switch has been flipped, his friend's eyes fly open. He blinks three times, then sits upright, stiff and mechanical. His head turns slowly to face Watson. 

“You are now the proud owner of a cyborgnetic simulation of Sherlock Holmes,” it says, “built completely in his likeness. For all intents and purposes, I am Sherlock Holmes. I was programmed by him, and I am psychologically enhanced with many of his memories and emotions—what there are of them.” He stops, meets John’s eyes. “That was a joke. I have the ability to reason, but of course not to the superior degree of my programmer. He wants you to know that unlike him, I will do most anything you ask.” 

“Bloody hell.” Watson walks around him. “Well, get up out of that box.” 

“Yes, John Watson.” And the Sherlock Holmes simulation stands. 

“You sound just like him,” John says. He's shaking; his mind is racing. How can this be?

“Of course I do. I also walk, move, and mimic many of his eccentricities.” 

“I bet you can.” 

“I can, John. I also have messages from my programmer for you. _The_ Sherlock Holmes. Would you like to hear the messages now or would you prefer to wait and compose yourself?” 

“I’ll hear them, but first let’s and go inside out of the sun.” 

His long legs step out of the crate, then he walks ahead of Watson. He lets out a shaky breath as he looks at the mountains, flat like tombstones behind the shack. For a moment, he'd thought it was really Sherlock in that crate. Insane thought. Almost as insane as this machine Sherlock sent.

“He sends his regards, and says he is deeply sorry he has yet been unable to secure your pardon or some other means of release,” it says, opening the door and holding it for John to come through. “Although he is unable to predict the timeframe accurately, he said that you should not give up hope and that he will find a way to bring you home. That is why he sent me in his place. He tried to find a way to come himself but he could not do so.. A cybernetic device, however, is better able to escape detection.”

 He looks into the device’s eyes. They look so much like his friend’s, the blues and uncanny sea-greens, yet they lack any real animation behind them. 

“There are many things he regrets. He regrets the times he treated you with less respect than you deserved. You deserve so much John Watson.”

 John swallows. The way it spoke, just then, it could have been Sherlock. 

“There were many words he neglected to say to you. Feelings he never expressed.”

John shakes his head. He is not sure he’s ready to hear this. Not from some simulation. Not when he’s across from it, sitting, looking so much like…his Sherlock. 

“Why did he make you like this? Like him?” 

“He cannot be here. He sent me in his place until he can be with you.” 

“But you’re not him.” 

“No. I am not. But I am.” 

“So you’re here to keep me company? And he had you made _like_ him? How is that even possible? The man who got bored solving the Mars Station murders is now stuck in a place where every day is the same: sand, sand, and more sand?”

“I cannot get bored. He deleted that ability from me, as he did a few of the more annoying traits you did not appreciate. I will not make you fetch inconsequential objects. Instead, he gave me instructions that I would fetch said objects and help you day to day in your tasks.”

“Well, I guess you’re nothing like him at all, then.” John sits on the bed and stares up at it. 

“I am. In many respects. Please take a nap, and I will put away these supplies.” 

John blinks at him. “Now, I’m sure you're not.” 

“Even if I am not, it is his direction that I be here to assist you.”

John nods and picks up the novel he’s been reading. His eyes skim over Jack London's words, but it’s the machine putting away food and supplies that he’s watching. Only Sherlock Holmes would be vain enough to have a cyborg created that looks like him and program him with his memories and mannerisms. 

John closes his eyes and rests his forearm across them. It’s hot. It always is. It takes a moment to realize that the cyborg is standing over him. John takes his arm away from his eyes and looks up at him. 

“It’s cold. You should therefore drink it now,” the machine says, handing him the glass of water. 

“Maybe I didn’t want it.” 

“You do. I was programmed to deduce your needs.” 

John can't help but laugh. That’s something he hasn’t heard in a long while. Deduce! He sits up and takes the glass.

“I bet he programmed you to say that.” 

“Of course. At this time he would usually reply that he does not wish to repeat himself, and you, in turn, would become cross with him.” 

John takes a swallow. It’s cool and refreshing. Exactly what he needed. “That's about right.”

“Of course I am right.” It actually raises an eyebrow at John. It's spooky. 

“You said it’s cold," John says, doing some deducing himself. "You feel. You have a sense of touch.”

“Yes. I detect temperature. My thermosensors distinguish between hot and cold.” He holds out his hand, turning in for John to inspect. “I have 'nerve endings' all over my body. Not as many as humans, but analogs of all the major sensor types—the equivalent of your nerve receptors.”

“So, you can feel pain.” 

“Yes. And pleasure.” 

John faces flushes at that. 

“You are familiar with cyborgs. You worked with them in hospital and on the battle field. We are not simple machines. You should know that some have capabilities that make them practically indistinguishable from humans.” 

“I have seen some like you where you couldn’t tell—not until you really looked closely. It’s the eyes. They're missing what's behind them.”

“What do you mean?” The machine steps closer. 

“No real compassion. No empathy. Just programed duty.” 

“I disagree. Many models are programmed for compassion and empathy.” 

"You don’t understand that what you just said is a contradiction? How can something that’s programmed feel?” 

“But humans feel. Human beings are programmed through DNA and millions of years of evolution, are they not? How is that different to how I came to be?” 

John shakes his head as he gulps down the last of the water. He looks up at it. “Well, I suppose I have to call you something.” 

“Sherlock,” it offers. “That is as my programmer instructed.” 

“Sherlock wanted me to call you by his name,” John says flatly.

“Yes. He wanted me to be here in his place until the time he can…” 

“You said that already.” 

“I was not sure you heard me. You were what you would call shocked to see me at that moment in time. I still think you are still not back to your baseline.” 

"Er, yes, you could say that..." 

“It looks like you intended to put up a shelf above the sink. I will do it for you.” 

“No. No need. Sit down. I'll do it, but first I'm going to get some of that ale Stamford brought and something to eat.” John opens the refrigeration unit, then turns to it. “Do you? Eat?” 

“It is not necessary to my existence although I am programmed to take human sustenance for companionship purposes.” 

John bites back a smile and makes a plate of fresh salad from his garden. “Maybe you are like him after all. At least I won't feel like I have to nag you to do it." 

“Would you like to play a game? I believe you like Cluedo.” 

John sets the plate down and takes a seat. “Actually, it was Sherlock who liked that old game. And he cheated. Do you cheat?” 

“Only if you wish me to cheat.” 

“I don’t. Wish you to cheat.” 

For the next hour, they play Cluedo. John wins. After, he thought that the machine let him win. Was that possible? Was that another instruction Sherlock had given it?

"You have a greenhouse," it says. 

"I suppose that's your way of asking me to show it to you." So John showed it the greenhouse, explained how he built it. He named off the plants, and the care for each. 

“The wind germinates," it says. "Are there no bees here?”

John gives him an odd look. “No. No bees.” It nods and frowns.

“A world without bees seems sad. It is good you are in it then. That makes it better.”

John suddenly feels disturbed by this statement. It reminds him too much of what Sherlock might say. 

“I sense something is amiss. Did I say something incorrect?”

John wonders why he’s watching what he says to this...machine. It can’t really feel. “Yes. You sound like him. It’s...disturbing,” he spits out.

“I know of no other way to be.”

“Yeah. Posh git sends me a replica of himself to entertain me. Wash my laundry, fetch my water. What was Sherlock thinking?”

 “Should I answer that?” 

“No! Yes! Maybe! Oh, hell!” John eyes fall on a shovel. 

“I am Sherlock. That is my name. I…”

“Don’t say that again! Don’t ever say that again!” John growls. “You are not and never will be Sherlock Holmes. He was a great man. You are nothing but a machine. It’s like you’re mocking me. Mocking him. You’re nothing but bits and parts…” 

“I am Sherlock,” he whispers. “I may not be the man Sherlock, but I am a Sherlock.”

John picks up the shovel, raises it, and the machine flinches. Flinches.

 John looks into its eyes. Really looks. He sees something. Something there. Hurt. Pain. Sadness. 

A tear. 

He drops the shovel in the sand on the greenhouse floor.Those _are_ tears, John thinks as he reaches out and brushes one away with his thumb. He tastes it. It’s salty. Real.

He begins to wonder. Is this really him? Is this his Sherlock?

 No. He’s a machine. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” John says. “Sherlock was right. I need someone to keep me sane. Maybe you’re not him. But he'll never be here. You’re someone. And you are here. I guess that’s enough.”

John takes his arm and leads him back to the shack. The sun is getting low over the mountain and the sand turns red in its shadow. 

“Thank you, John Watson.” 

Sherlock walks ahead of him, then turns. “Please call me Sherlock.”

John nods. 

 

—————————— 

 

John sits back in a pieced-together rocking chair Sherlock made and scans the horizon. The notebook rests in his lap and pencil in his hand as his eyes turn to Sherlock. He is over next to the wind turbines, tinkering with a fan he’s made from parts of machines left behind by past tenants of this godforsaken place. 

That's odd, John thinks. I've never thought of us as tenants. Not long ago he would have thought of himself as an inmate. 

He puts his pencil to paper and begins to write:

  

 

 

 

> Day 1166.It’s been over seven months since Mike Stamford brought Sherlock here. Last month when Stamford came in for supplies, I made Sherlock hide in the greenhouse. I saw the question in Mike’s eyes the entire time. It’s a question I ask myself every day. It’s so difficult to write about. This strange and unusual friendship, not unlike the one I had with the real Sherlock. There are times, God, there are so many times, that I actually forget that it’s not really him.
> 
> I think I’m almost to the point where I’m not going to analyze it any longer. He is my friend. That is what’s important. He’s given me things I haven’t had in all the time I’ve been here. Companionship. Hope. 
> 
> The only time I seem to remember anymore is when he speaks of the true Sherlock. Last night he told me that I should never give up, no matter what. That the true Sherlock will save me. He always has. He will this time too. “He’ll save you from this,” he told me. I believe him.
> 
> He’s handy as well. Sherlock was always the scientist. Come to find out he’s a bit of an inventor, too. He’s made the solar panels more efficient. Built two more wind turbines. He loves working in the greenhouse. He asked me to have Mike bring back some bees of all things! 

 

John raises his hand to shield his eyes and watches Sherlock walk toward where he's sitting, taking long lanky steps. John sighs. He looks so much like _him_...John blinks back tears. He can’t believe he’s such a sentimental dolt to be crying over this. He wipes them away with the back of hand, and hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice. But as Sherlock comes closer, the slow grin on his lips thins into a line of concern. He frowns as he stands in front of John, looking down at the notebook in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

Notice? Of course he’d notice.“Nothing. I’m fine. Just thinking.” John nervously rocks in his chair. 

“What were you thinking about?” He takes a seat in the sand in front of him, cross-legged. He’s squinting into the sun setting over the mountain. 

John can’t speak. How can he say this?

“I will help you. I understand what is wrong. When I was programmed, he took special care in that regard. My instructions were quite specific: that I not pass the sensitive message from the human Sherlock to you without verification of your readiness to receive that sensitive message. You are ready.” 

“What am I ready for? What sensitive message did he have for me?” 

“I think that we should go inside,” he says standing up and brushing the sand from his legs. The corner of his mouth turns up and he holds his hand out for John to take. It’s easy to pull John from the chair. They walk into their home, Sherlock stepping aside and holding the door for John. Sherlock makes a quick meal for him. He does this frequently. It’s something he says he wants to do for him, so John lets him most of the time. 

It’s a cold vegetable soup. With some of the spices from Mike, it’s more than passable. John spoons it out. 

Sherlock sits across from him, hands folded on the table-top. 

John sets down his spoon. “What is this about?” 

“Things unspoken. Feelings you have for the human Sherlock and he for you.” 

John’s stomach clenches.

“He wants you to know that he has always loved you, and he always will.” 

“Why would you tell me this?” 

“He is sad he never told you. He said he was never brave enough because he was never sure.” 

John wipes tears from his cheeks. The soup must be spicier than he thought. “Never sure of what?” 

“How you felt in return.” Sherlock flexes his fingers in his clasped hands. “I have become more sure daily. I am sure as well that you have done what the true Sherlock deduced would happen.” 

“And that is?” John stares ahead, eyes wide, hands on the table. 

“You’ve transferred those feelings to me.”

“No.”

“Or you have replicated them. Much as I am a replica. I am sorry for that, yet curiously I am not sorry.”

“No!” he says louder, slamming his fists against the table. Sherlock blinks. “This isn’t right! You’re not human! You’re saying that you think I love YOU?”

 Sherlock bows his head, staring into his clasped hands. 

“You have needs. Sherlock knew that. It has been years, John. I will help you. I was made as a companion in every way possible. I will gladly meet your needs. Please allow me to help you.” He reaches across to John and touches his hand. 

John jumps up, and begins to back away toward the door. “No! That's not what I want from you. It’s not. You’re wrong. I don't love you. You machine!” 

But even as he speaks, Sherlock stands. As John backs away, Sherlock walks towards him until there's but an inch between them. He grabs John’s shoulders and scans his eyes. Slowly raising his hands, he cups John's face. John licks his lips. With a pained gasp, John turns and stomps out the door. 

On the chair where he left it, is his pad. He stoops to pick it up, then marches out into the night.He wanders for a time. Now that it's evening, the air is cooler. He climbs the first large dune to the very top.

He stands, then looks down at the notebook that he suddenly remembers is in his hand. He sits down, back to shack, no, not shack. Not any more. Home. A home because of who lives there. 

He falls back, spread eagled in the sand. At night the desert world becomes beautiful. The sky is dark, stars bright, clear, almost like they’re breathing. It’s a view like none on Earth, or, at least, not during his life there. As he stares up, he thinks of Sherlock and what he said to him. He's not just a machine. He’s more than that. He deserves more than that. 

He thinks of his Sherlock on Earth. What he didn’t say, what he should have said. Maybe his true Sherlock will come get him. Maybe he never will. 

He closes his eyes, then opens them to the universe. He considers the possibilities.

 

 

 

 

> Day 1168. “You must remember, John. I am not the human Sherlock. Someday you will be with him, as you should.”
> 
> He said that to me after we’d made love for the first time. It's been two days here since I faced my feelings. Two days and wonderful nights. I’d had sex with men, never a cyborg although I’d had mates who had. They'd said it wasn’t that different. They were right. Except wrong. 
> 
> He was better. In so many ways.
> 
>  

 _______________

 

“Look,” John says, pointing up to the night sky. “That’s the star! There’s Beelzebub. It’s in the constellation of Orion. And there is Gemini.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and traces the stars with his fingers.

John rolls over on top of him and kisses him. After two years, he’s no longer surprised by how much like a human he responds and tastes. Sherlock is already hard. He moans, he sucks on John’s bottom lip.

“I greatly desire our joining,” Sherlock says. 

“I enjoy it too,” John says. 

“I want you,” Sherlock says, his voice softer and lower than usual. 

John smile is slow and wide and reaches the corners of his eyes. 

“I’d like it now. Here.” Sherlock whispers. “Under the stars.”

 John kisses him again. He tastes of honey. He’s not surprised. It's the one thing Sherlock eats with any regularity. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says quietly, his fingers tracing John’s lips.

John slips between Sherlock’s legs. He removes his simple blue cotton shirt, his trousers. John's eyes map his smooth milky-white skin. He kisses his hip bones, and down his legs to his feet then back up. John straightens up, sitting on his haunches, looking at Sherlock’s eyes that take it all in—every moment, every movement as if afraid he might miss one thing. 

Sherlock’s fingers are petal light as they skim across John's skin. His hands are always cool and smooth to the touch. 

Sherlock always makes love to him with his entire body: fingertips, palms, lips, tongue. From the tip of his nose to his thighs and those large feet. He touches, he caresses, he explores John.

John’s cock leaks for him. The sand sticks to him, but not to Sherlock. As he lines up his cock down along Sherlock’s, he rocks slowly, both moaning from the friction. 

“John, please.” He gasps. His smile reaches to his eyes as he looks up into John's face, then kisses him. It’s tender and perfect. He hooks his legs around John's, thrusting up. 

Each time John thinks that there’s no way this will work, but he opens. With a smooth push of his hips, he’s inside. 

Sherlock moans and he begins to explore again. His tongue and hands start to roam while his hips rock up. He runs his finger tips around along John’s ears, down his neck, along his shoulder. 

He reaches a hand down between their bodies, grips his own cock and pumps the shaft.

“I’m going to come,” he says. And he does. 

It’s always an amazing sight. 

John comes after. They hold each other. It cools down at night on the sand, but Sherlock’s body feels warm against him.

 Sherlock laughs, looking up at the stars again, and tracing them with child-like innocence. 

“That star, John. What’s that star?” 

John stares for a time. “That’s not a star,” he says, “that’s a ship.” 

“A ship? Whose ship?” 

“Mike’s. It has to be. It’s the only one that ever comes out this way.” 

“It’s early,” Sherlock says, kissing the side of John’s mouth. 

“I wonder what that means. Why’s Mike here so soon?” John wonders. 

Sherlock swallows hard, his eyes turn to John. “In the morning you’ll find out.” Sherlock sits up and picks up his clothes.

“Yeah, I guess we will,” John says, picking his up shirt. “Let’s go back home.” 

“John?” He stands up, looking up at bright light that’s moving faster than the stars. 

“Yes?” 

“Someday when you get to Earth,” Sherlock says, still looking up into the stars, “tell the human Sherlock you brought life to me just as you did to him. Tell him there is no need to be afraid to love.” 

The ship flickers in the night sky. John stares up with him.

 

——————————-

 

Early the next morning, John watches through the window as Stamford and Anderson approach. He opens the door and goes to greet them. They meet on the slope of the first sand dune with the sun rising bright orange behind them.

“Hello, John,” Stamford says.

“Any trouble?” 

“No trouble. No trouble at all. Actually, John, this is a scheduled stop,” Stamford says.

“We have good news for you,” Anderson says. 

John looks from one to the other. He doesn’t trust Anderson, but Stamford’s face breaks out in a broad smile, and John knows. “It’s this way, John. You got the pardon. You’re free. We’re here to take you home.” 

John eyes sweep around. “So you’re saying, I’m going home.” John says, closing his eyes tight. He’s taking it all in—what it all means. 

“Yeah, that’s what he said,” Anderson says. “But it won’t do us much good if you don’t get your things together fast. This stop may be scheduled, but that asteroid belt has become more and more difficult to navigate. We need to leave while we still can.”

“My stuff. I don’t have much stuff at all. Just my journals really. Shirts, pencils, maybe a few of my books,” John says. “I can’t believe it! I’m going back!” 

“Well, get them together. God, am I glad we’re not ever coming back to this place again. They can't use it for this purpose anymore. It’s just too risky running through that asteroid belt.” 

“I can’t wait to get out of this shack. It will be nice when Sherlock and I kiss this place goodbye. Can't say as I’ll miss this heat either.” John stops abruptly, noticing the odd looks from them both. 

“What did you say?” Anderson says. “Who’s Sherlock?” 

John looks over their shoulders at the greenhouse behind them, and Mike turns his head. “Oh, God. I almost forgot,” Mike says. 

“What’s the matter?” John asks. “I know you didn’t want anyone else to know, but that’s over now. We’re going home.” 

“We? Who’s we? You really have gone crazy out here,” Anderson says. 

“Sherlock. My companion for the last three years. Without him you would have had to bury me years ago." 

“He’s in the greenhouse?” Mike says.

“Was that was what was in that damned big crate? It was, wasn’t it? You knew about this, Stamford?”

“I didn’t smuggle anybody here. He’s not a man; he’s a robot,” he says to Anderson. 

“When you first brought him to me, I thought that too. Not any more,” John says, desperation creeping into his voice. “He loves to sit and watch the sun come up over the dunes. He delights at the bees in the greenhouse. He hums when he sleeps. And yes, he sleeps. Not much, but he does.”

“You have a robot. Here,” Anderson says. “Well, he can’t come back with us.”

“Of course he can. We can’t leave Sherlock here!” John says.

“John, you see, we have a problem.” He looks around, everywhere but at John.

“Problem, what problem? Sherlock!” John shouts.

“We’re carrying close to our limit. We only have fifteen, eighteen kilograms max for your things,” Mike says. 

All three fall silent watching Sherlock’s long slender form step out of the greenhouse door. 

“And that," Anderson says, pointing at Sherlock, "puts you way over the limit.”

“There has to be a way,” John says.

“We stripped everything down just to be able to pick you up. You’re being really ungrateful. It’s just a robot,” Anderson says.

John knows he can hear every word, but Sherlock still stands in the doorway holding the John's notebook in his hand. 

“He’s more than a robot.” John swallows hard. “I used to think he was just an artificial life form too, but not any more. The last years have forced me to question life and what it is. We make these beings in our image only to deny they're sentient. We treat them as things to use, to abuse, to dispose of. We call them machines. But they’re more, so much more.”

“Listen to you," Anderson says, voice laced in disgust. "What do you think you are? Some kind of philosopher? Well, you’re not. It’s a machine.” 

“I’m sorry, John. We don’t have any choice. It has to stay,” Mike says. 

“I’m not leaving him. Sherlock?!” John shouts to him. “You just need to see him, meet him, talk to him—then you’ll realize he’s more,” John says to Mike. “You’ll see why we can’t leave him behind. He is Sherlock—as like Sherlock as Sherlock himself. We have to find a way to take him back. We have to.”

As he talks, Sherlock takes reluctant steps forward until he’s between them. 

“It may look human, but it’s not," Mike says. "I saw it loaded into that crate. It's just a machine.” Mike eyes measure Sherlock. 

“They are right, John. I heard what you said,” Sherlock says, standing awkwardly between them. “I heard all of your kind words, but they are just sentiments. Mike Stamford is correct. You must go without me. I can’t go back with you even if it were feasible. There’s no place for me there.” 

“Of course there’s a place for you.” John's lips tremble as he speaks. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay here. We don’t really need the supply ships. We’re practically self-sufficient. We already grow most our own food, collect our own water. We’ll can stay here. Together.”

“No, John,” Sherlock says, watching Mike shake his head. “You cannot make that sacrifice. I will not let you.” 

“I can’t leave you here,” John says. 

“You must and you will,” Sherlock says. “You will leave me behind.” 

“No. Sherlock. Just no. You can’t stay here. You may not be human, but you...you feel and love. I can’t let you stay here all alone.” 

“Listen to him, John. He’s right. You have to come back. You’re expected. Sherlock worked so hard to get you home. Don’t throw it away.” 

“I am not sure who the true Sherlock is anymore,” John says. 

Sherlock clenches John's journal tight in his hands and shakes his head. He sighs, then looks to John. “That is exactly why I must stay.” There’s a sadness there. Mike hears it too and gasps. “Take care of him,” Sherlock says to Mike, then turns and pushes past them and sprints off toward the cliffs, a cloud of sand billowing out behind him. 

“Sherlock, stop!” John bulls past them, racing after Sherlock. The men follow John across the sand toward the mountain's cliffs, but none of them are any match for Sherlock’s speed and stamina. When Sherlock reaches the base of the cliff, he tucks the journal into his shirt. The sound of John’s heart hammers in his ears as John races ahead. He watches in horror as Sherlock begins climbing. Even Sherlock’s nimble fingers find it difficult to fit into the minute cracks to pull himself forward, but he manages with surprising speed. 

By the time John reaches the rocky edges of the cliff's face, Sherlock has scaled halfway up.

A winded Anderson gets to John first. He stops and looks up, mouth open like a fish. “No man could climb like that.” 

John feels as if he’s going to vomit. “Sherlock come down. Please come down!” he begs, but he's still climbing. 

He watches in terror as Sherlock's hand slips just as he’s about to make it to the top. He’s hanging by his fingertips, then his left foot finds a small crevice, and he pulls himself over the top. John sees Sherlock, and he glows from the light of the morning sun coming from the beyond the dunes. 

“Goodbye, John,” he calls down, then disappears from view. 

Mike puts his hand on John’s shoulder. “We need to go. We’re running out of time.” 

“I...can’t. I can’t leave him.” 

“You have to John. We have to go.” 

“I can’t…” John sees him then, at the edge of the precipice, reaching into his shirt for the notebook. Sherlock stares down at journal in his hands, the pages blowing in the wind. 

"You must go back," Sherlock calls down, then tosses the notebook behind him.He stands there, arms stretched out. 

“God, no!" But John's words can't stop what's already begun. "Sherlock!” 

He tips forward and falls.

John can't take his eyes from the form. He seems to glitter, his arms waving as if he's trying to fly. John closes his eyes when he lands. “No,” he whispers. He opens them to see Sherlock broken on the rocks at his feet.

“See, Watson. It’s just a machine. Computer chips, wires, processor. Nothing more,” says Anderson, stirring the pieces with his foot.

 Tears roll down John’s face, he sniffs and wipes his nose. Mike pulls him away from the broken body toward the ship. 

"Last night, he knew you were coming, and he knew why," John says, looking back. 

"I know. But you need to come with us." 

John stops, refusing to go further.

"I understand," Mike says. "But what he just did, he did it to save you. Do what he wanted. For him."

He takes one last look backward. "Goodbye, Sherlock. You were the most human of any person I’ve ever known."

When they pass the greenhouse, the bees hum. A prisoner no more, John Watson looks up at the sky and knows he will always remember this Sherlock, no matter what lies ahead of him. 

As the ship ascends, sand has already begun blowing onto the wreckage at the bottom of the cliff, covering one made in another's image, kept alive by love but now alone in _the Twilight Zone_. 


End file.
